


Mending

by seaquestions



Category: Darkest Dungeon (Video Game)
Genre: Awkward Romance, Fluff, Healing, Injury, M/M, Pre-Relationship, this is kind of a character study maybe, warning for a detailed description of a wound being closed up w/ wyrd reconstruction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-12 15:21:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28762485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seaquestions/pseuds/seaquestions
Summary: Expeditions and dire circumstances aside, Alhazred was nobody's first pick when it came to curing their wounds. Why would he be, when there were plenty of other, more reliable and less bloody avenues? Nobody would willingly go to the Occultist.Nobody but Tardif.
Relationships: Bounty Hunter/Occultist (Darkest Dungeon)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 15





	Mending

**Author's Note:**

> heyooo this is my first work in the dd fandom and its also like the longest thing ive written in a while lmao
> 
> like it says in the tags, there's a detailed description of a wound resealing itself with wyrd reconstruction, specifically a cut on tardif's palm. there's also textural description of the healing flesh. the injury itself is an accident, but please be aware of this if you choose to read, i wouldnt want to upset anyone sensitive to this kind of thing. thank you!

If there was anything Tardif learned in his years as a mercenary, it was that absent-mindedness could lead to fatal mistakes. Vigilance and preparation was key. A good bounty hunter should never be caught off guard.

A sharp sting. A low curse, then muttering: “Of all the lousy, stupid…”

Mistakes were unwelcome. Especially ones that were beyond preventable.

“Rrgh. Now this glove's bloody ruined,” he grumbled, “Heh. Bloody, ruined. Fuck.” Drops of red spilled on the bed where he'd been sitting.

It must've been the lack of activity, he thought. The Heir had forced a week off on him, and it was getting to his head. Yes, their last expedition may have been rough, and Tardif in particular may have gone a touch irrational during, but he was fine _now_. No reason to keep him benched. True, he had _just_ slipped while polishing his axe and cut himself pretty deep in the palm, but—

He sighed. No, no use bargaining with empty air. Not with his hand still open and bleeding. He clutched it with his other hand and tried to ignore how much it hurt. Felt like it was pulsing, screaming at him. Tardif pushed down the urge to punch the wall—he may be frustrated but he was no brat. The wall looked like it was halfway to crumbling anyway. Though, perhaps punching it could spread out and numb the pain…

Whatever. He needed to fix this.

He got up and kneeled at his pack, grabbing a roll of bandages, plus his wineskin. He shook his injured hand out of his glove. Shakily, he cleaned and patched it up, not caring about the mix of water and blood spilling on the floor. He breathed out. There. That should do it.

Tardif shut his eyes and didn't get up off the floor. The pain hadn't let up of course. It, as well as the sloppy patch-up job and the blood that he'd have to clean up, only served as a reminder of his addled mind. It was good that he was alone. Better to deal with your mistakes yourself.

His hand was still injured though. 

Tardif wasn't a stranger to pain. He could tough it out, sure. But just this morning, the Hellion had offered to spar with him tomorrow at dawn. Said she understood his need to fight. He had accepted it, pleasantly surprised at the gesture, and had been quietly looking forward to it. It was why he was fixing up his axe! If he showed up with an injured hand, he would surely be pummeled. He had enough self-awareness to realise that, at least (he wasn’t _such_ an egomaniac that he’d think he’d win). 

Tardif could fight well enough under bad circumstances, of course, but a sparring match against a well-rested Hellion in full form with this disadvantage was just public humiliation waiting to happen. And if he backed out after he gave his word, after he made a show of being wholly unfettered, it would make him a coward—and that was worse than defeat. This left only one solution.

The Occultist.

Tardif was not a fan of the Sanitarium, the walls and the smell of it oppressing. He highly disliked being treated by the Plague Doctor, as they always made him feel like a lab experiment. And most of all, he absolutely hated going to the Abbey. The last time he’d been hauled to the church after a failed quest, he’d been shaking and snarling like a feral dog. He had wailed at the pain, how it burned to be healed by the Light—and the Vestal had responded to his pain with a soft, gentle reminder that the Light wouldn’t hurt those who welcomed it. Nice as she must have been trying to seem, the comment had sunk to the bottom of his stomach and made him sick for weeks.

Really, he was averse to the concept of “asking for help” in general. There was no need. He was a self-sufficient man.

Alhazred was… an exception.

Tardif put his glove back on after wiping the blood off it and got up. After wiping up all the mess, he left his room, making sure that his mask and helmet were properly on first, and hoped not to cross paths with any of the others.

The Occultist’s main haunt was the small library that the Heir had set up in the Hamlet some time ago. The estate had quite the collection of tomes, some dustier than others, and they decided to make it public. Well, mostly. Some of the more potentially dangerous books were kept in a restricted section. There, Alhazred could often be found reading and writing all kinds of texts.

It was a short walk from the inn where the Bounty Hunter stayed—Tardif had opted not to live in the barracks with the rest of the “heroes”. Alhazred didn’t stay there either, though for him it was less because of general misanthropy and more to make sure the Entity was at a safe distance from the others while he was asleep. Though Tardif wished the scholar would at least get a real mattress inside the old stagecoach where he slept and kept his belongings—if only because a lack of decent sleep made a man less sharp, of course. 

Not that Alhazred ever was, that is. Tardif would not be heading to him if he thought the man was incompetent. The Occultist was usually the opposite of that. Really, he was one of the only sources of intelligent conversation to be had in the Hamlet.

Tardif walked into the small building, making sure to shake off any dirt on his boots before tracking anything over the nice hardwood flooring. The old crone who ran the place would berate him every time he forgot, and it always just reminded him of the schoolteachers from his childhood. Unpleasant. The library itself was quaint, clean, and dimly lit. There were rows of tall bookshelves and a few places to sit and read. Tardif made his way to the back of the building. He wasn’t originally allowed in the restricted section, as that privilege was only granted to the Heir’s trusted scholars. But the Occultist had asked for Tardif to be an exception, and so, with a raised eyebrow and a shrug, they had given him access.

(Alhazred really didn’t have to—Tardif didn’t care about these books and the Occultist knew that, which meant of course that he did it for a different reason. Tardif always avoided thinking too deeply about it, because doing that kept making his face overheat—out of frustration of not knowing the man’s motives, of course.)

Alhazred had a small desk installed in the back, just for him. And there he was, hunched over, alternating between reading and taking notes on a piece of parchment, illuminated by the small flame of his focus.

Quiet as the Bounty Hunter usually was, Alhazred always noticed him walking in. Maybe it was the silence of the library making his steps more noticeable, maybe it was the scholar’s own supernatural senses. Either way, Alhazred straightened up and turned to face him as he approached.

“Good evening Tardif,” the man greeted, with a small smile, “What can I do for you?”

Polite and direct. Alhazred was never a hassle to talk to.

“Hm. Need a little fixing,” Tardif replied, taking off his glove and showing Alhazred his injured hand.

“Oh!” The man’s eyes widened, and he got up to drag a chair over, so that Tardif could sit down. “Of course, you were planning on training with Boudica tomorrow, weren’t you?” 

Tardif grunted in affirmation, plopping himself on the wooden chair as Alhazred rolled his sleeves up. He let the man take his hand to carefully peel away the sloppy bandaging. 

Silence was rarely awkward between them, but for some reason Tardif felt off. Perhaps it was the embarrassment of having made a stupid mistake, and not wanting Alhazred to ask about it. Perhaps it was how gently Alhazred held his hand.

As the Occultist took the last of the bandages away, Tardif made an offer: “I can get you some more incense sticks after this.”

Alhazred’s eyes flicked up to meet Tardif’s mask. “Hmm, sure,” he replied, “You’ll have to pay with your own gold, of course.”

Tardif nodded sharply as Alhazred shut his eyes and started an incantation.

Truth be told, he knew that Alhazred would gladly do these things out of the goodness of his heart, and that the man was only playing along with him when Tardif turned acts of kindness into transactions. It was just more comfortable for him this way—and internally, he was grateful that Alhazred managed to understand this quirk of his since Day 1.

Slowly, the flesh of his palm started to reconstruct itself as Alhazred whispered. Without the stress of battle rushing him, the man was able to heal much more effectively. It didn’t hurt as much either. It still stung, but any other treatment would’ve done so as well. 

Suddenly, Tardif was struck with an intense curiosity.

What did the Wyrdflesh feel like, before it fully solidified and melded with his skin? Tardif wanted to feel his flesh sealing itself but not passively. He wanted to touch it. He wanted to feel it shift under his fingertips.

Absently, he lifted his other hand and let it approach the wound.

Before he could touch it, however, Alhazred jolted with a gasp, his eyes flying open, still glowing red. The sudden movement had Tardif jump back as well, his good hand up and open next to his head. He nearly took his injured hand back, but Alhazred kept it firmly in his grip.

“Tardif—“ 

“Sorry—“

The two men’s voices stumbled as they spoke simultaneously. Tardif snorted, and gestured at Alhazred, letting him go first.

The Occultist’s brow was furrowed, his eyes confused. “What was that?” he asked.

“Uh.” Tardif felt like crawling inside a hole. “I was just curious.” His voice got weaker as he went, “Wanted to touch it. Yeah.”

Alhazred sighed, relieved. “Oh, was that all? I was afraid I had done something wrong.”

Tardif also felt the tension leave his muscles. “No,” he said, “Of course not. Never.”

A little smile tugged on the corner of the scholar’s lips. “If you wanted to feel it, shouldn’t you have taken your glove off first?” he remarked.

Oh. Right.

Tardif started shaking his glove off, only for Alhazred to laugh softly and grab it with his free hand. 

“Here,” he said, “I’ll pull on it.”

As Alhazred took the glove off his hand and set it down on the desk, Tardif became aware that Alhazred kept a hold of his other hand this entire time and hadn’t let go. Maybe it was part of the whole magic thing. Though he couldn’t remember if Alhazred ever needed touch to heal in battle…

“Alright,” the Occultist said, “You can go ahead now, just don’t touch the part that’s still open.”

Hesitantly, Tardif reached over to poke at the most healed part of his cut. The texture was soft, almost gooey. It was more liquid than the rest of his hand, but still mostly solid. Squishy.

“What exactly _is_ it?” he murmured.

Alhazred’s mustache twitched as the man smiled. “I’d love to say that it’s some mysterious material that’s not of this world, but it isn’t. Yes, it is enchanted but—really it’s just blood.”

Tardif blinked under the helmet. “Huh.”

The Occultist’s under eyelids creased as he said, amused, “Here. Pay attention, I’ll do it extra slowly.”

The man muttered the incantation under his breath, his irises turning a deep red. Then, Tardif noticed blood being drawn out from his injury, the liquid pooling together and rising up and out like a small spike on the part of his cut that was about to be healed before Tardif interrupted the process. The blood spike bisected itself, then jabbed the halves into the two sides of unharmed flesh next to the cut, pulling them close together to seal the wound as much as it can. The blood then solidified, turning into an almost-flesh, slowly matching the colour of his skin.

It was oddly mesmerizing to watch a small portion of his wound sew itself shut with its own blood. It certainly explained the distinct look of Wyrd Reconstruction scars, where it followed the curve of the cut but had multiple spikes coming off the center, like perpendicular thorns. It certainly explained all the bleeding too.

“There,” Alhazred said, sounding a bit out of breath, “That’s how it works. Now just do that as many times over until the wound is fully closed. Does that satisfy your curiosity?”

Tardif nodded. “Interesting,” he said, “You can heal it normally now.”

The smaller man chuckled. “Yes, it takes some concentration to do it that slow. I usually have to do it so quickly!”

“Mmn. Wonder why people don’t go to you more. This all makes so much more sense than leeches and Light,” Tardif said, snorting.

Alhazred hummed as he continued sealing the flesh at his usual pace. "Oh, I've no interest in becoming the town doctor, mind you. It's good that people don't hound me for help. It's fine if it's just you though."

“Although, I've always found it odd that you prefer _my_ sorcery to them,” he remarked.

Tardif snorted. “I understand flesh and blood.”

“My dear,” the Occultist said, “Flesh and blood are one and the same.”

With that, the last of the wound was sealed shut, no blood left over. The flesh was already looking nearly identical in skin tone to the rest of his palm, just a bit more pink. Poking it, it felt solid, the texture indistinguishable from regular flesh. Tardif flexed his hand and stretched. There was still a bit of phantom pain in his nerves, but he knew that would go away by tomorrow morning.

“Thank you,” he said, getting up from his seat.

Alhazred handed him his gloves. “No problem,” the man replied.

Tardif put them on, clicking his tongue at the ruined one. “Will have to fix this one. And clean it.”

“Ah,” said Alhazred, “I’d offer to help but unfortunately I only know how to sew flesh, not fabric!” 

A grunt. “It’s fine. I have a kit in my room.”

“You know how to sew?” Alhazred asked, surprised.

Tardif’s shoulders raised on instinct. “It’s a good skill to have,” he said, defensively.

“It is!” the scholar said, raising his hands up, “I only ask because it’s a skill I don’t possess.”

The mercenary relaxed. “Ah. You should learn. Your robes are so thin, it’s a wonder they haven’t been torn to shreds along with your flesh.”

Alhazred laughed out loud, then muffled his laughter with his hand when a sharp “Shh!” came from the front of the library.

“Oh, well,” he said, “I usually have _you_ protecting me, don’t I?”

Tardif felt the tips of his ears warm up. “True,” he said, “But it would still be good.”

Alhazred sighed, smiling. “Yes, you’re right as always, Tardif.”

For a man who travelled alone for so long, Alhazred was worryingly devoid of the ability to take care of himself. It seemed that all his genius went into intellectual pursuits, and none at all into self-preservation and being self-sufficient—one could tell just by looking at the mess that was his stagecoach.

“I could teach you,” Tardif blurted out.

A wash of instant regret came over him. Of all the stupid, embarrassing things to say…

“Would you?” Alhazred asked, softly. “I would be delighted to learn from you. It would certainly save me a lot of trouble.”

Tardif resisted the urge to back down, to make a callous remark and pretend that he didn’t mean it just to get out of a potentially vulnerable situation. This was Alhazred, the man who had _just_ healed his flesh, who had done so multiple times before and who would continue to do so just because. He couldn’t say no. He didn’t want to, no matter what his instincts told him.

“Yes,” he said, roughly.

The smile that showed up on Alhazred’s face was itself a reward.

“Great! Hold on, let me gather my things…”

Tardif blinked. “Huh? Now?”

The Occultist glanced at Tardif as he put his books inside his bag. “When else? I leave for an expedition tomorrow afternoon, remember?”

Ah. “Right.”

Tardif just figured, well—maybe in a week or two, make some sort of arrangement. But they would both be busy then, wouldn’t they? This might be the only free time they had together in a while. And, to be honest, he wasn’t exactly averse to spending more time with Alhazred.

“You could even use your glove as an example!” The Occultist joked, “Plus, we can call it even—you wouldn’t have to spend the gold getting me those sticks of incense.”

Alhazred stood up straight, his desk clear, his bag full and his hand holding his skull focus.

“Shall we?”

Tardif looked at the man, grateful for his helmet and cloth mask concealing his expression as always. Or maybe he shouldn’t be, as his face was getting a bit too warm.

“Y-yeah,” he said, biting his tongue at the stutter.

Alhazred made him so awkward sometimes. He was the only one who could, too. Though the man was so much shorter than Tardif, it sometimes felt like Alhazred towered over him. He clearly never meant to either, it was just—he threw Tardif off his game so often.

And it threw him off even more when Alhazred looped his arm around Tardif’s, linking them together as they walked out of the building. The sky was a deep, dark blue and there were few people out and about. The tavern was lit up, most likely filling up with drunken patrons, all making a ruckus.

Next to him, Alhazred shivered as a breeze came over them. “It’s a bit cold out,” he said, bringing his focus closer to himself to capture some heat.

True, it was starting to get cold this half of the season. The scholar wasn’t wearing the clothes for the occasion either. Tardif chewed on his lip for what felt like a full minute before deciding to throw caution against the wind—taking his arm back, he placed it on Alhazred’s shoulder and pulled the man close. One painfully slow second later, and Alhazred relaxed into his side, sighing contentedly, whispering a small “thank you” as he rested his head on Tardif’s shoulder. The Bounty Hunter felt his heart pounding wildly out of control, and desperately tried to will himself into acting cool and calm. He spared a glance down and found Alhazred facing just slightly away, with a small smile on his lips.

By the time the two had reached his room at the inn, Tardif’s hand had managed to make its way down to Alhazred’s waist. It would stay there for a good chunk of the night.

**Author's Note:**

> i have now written three entire fics with the premise of "holding hands without Actually Holding Hands" like, idk whats up with me—well. i think it just means i wanna hold hands with someone tbh.
> 
> thank you for reading! you can find me on tumblr [@seaquestions](https://seaquestions.tumblr.com/), i also drew these two idiot boys holding hands if u check out my art tag [winky face]


End file.
